


Inferno

by SBlackmane



Series: Lion, 9:41 Dragon [9]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dream Sex, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 10:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SBlackmane/pseuds/SBlackmane
Summary: Cullen has a peculiar dream involving Adaar





	Inferno

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn't wait any longer to throw in some smut, so here's some dream smut.
> 
> Fair warning, it does _not_ have a "happy ending"

He burst into his office with a snarl, then violently slammed the door shut behind him, causing the rafters to quake and dust to rain down upon his shoulders.

He was so angry with himself he was shaking.

So angry that he was seconds away from upending the desk in front of him, and everything on it.

He paced and paced, one hand gripping the hilt of his broadsword, the other massaging the kink in the base of his skull that had been plaguing him all night. It was hopeless to try and salvage the situation. Perhaps it would've been better had he never visited the Inquisitor to begin with, never bothered in the first place, but there was no turning back from it now. He could pretend it never happened. Allow Adaar to think whatever he will of Cullen's behavior, or dismiss it altogether.

But _he_ would know. Despite all else, he would know, and he would be confronted by it each time he spoke with the Inquisitor. _Maker, how could I be so stupid?!_

Sleep evading him, and having no other way to vent his frustration in the dead of night, the Commander plucked the throwing knives from the training dummy in the corner that doubled as an armor stand, stood across from it, aimed, and sunk each one into what would've been the heart, were it his enemy. At the moment, Cullen was his own worst enemy, and in his guilt and shame, he imagined the target was himself. Over and over he stabbed himself in the heart, until exhaustion finally kicked in.

Piece by piece, he removed his armor and arranged it neatly on the stand, removing the daggers so that he could affix his breastplate to the torso.

Then he made the arduous clime up the ladder to the loft above, and passed out, without so much as bothering to unlace his boots.

* * *

_The stairs spiraled upwards like a Circle tower, each stone slick with a sheen, like ice. Light flickered ahead, flames dancing with the shadows, and a song could be heard in the distance. A lute playing, though it sounded just slightly uneven. The bard forgot to tune it, perhaps. It sounded far away, like it was down in the main hall, and it accompanied laughter–people celebrating something, though what he couldn't recall–but the sound was muffled, and indistinct. A song he vaguely recognized, from a distant memory, maybe his childhood._

_Hadn't his mother sang that song on Satinalia?_

_Hand gripping the hilt of his blade, he climbed the tower, every muscle taught with apprehension of what waited at the top. Someone was up there, someone he was to meet. The light got brighter and brighter, yet the shadows in the corners got darker; he could feel them on the edges of his vision, a faint inkling of a notion that if he turned around there would be nothing behind him, only darkness, a blank canvas, and rather than stairs he would find a bottomless abyss. So he kept his eyes ahead and climbed the steps._

_He heard the fire crackling before he reached the landing and saw it. Blazing in the hearth that stretched uncharacteristically to the ceiling. The flames as tall as he, flashing and flickering, bathing the room in scarlet. He turned to inspect it, spotted the chains hanging from the ceiling and hung on the walls, the burgundy carpet on the floor. The balcony doors were closed, their black material glossy, like obsidian–something he'd seen before, but where?–The large Par Vollen bed was empty, the cover spread across it neatly._

_The metallic Qunari statues pulling the chains holding it erect turned their horned heads to watch, their eyes gleaming in the firelight._

_A deep voice rumbled behind him, saying, "So, Commander, wanna take me for a ride?"_

_"Yes, very much so," he said without delay, and felt warm hands on his skin. The armor he wore was suddenly gone, and fingers traced an invisible line from his shoulder blades to the small of his back. His breath hitched and he jerked at the unexpected touch, making the kossith chuckle. "That tickles, you know," he said, turning his head slightly and leaning back to rest against him, as Ataashi pulled him closer. It was so unbearably warm, but yet he still felt cold for some reason. Like he couldn't get close enough to the heat._

_"The Commander is ticklish?" the giant laughed, and so did he. Then he felt a hot mouth on his neck, warm breath in his ear, the sensation giving him goosebumps. He groaned when his lover nipped softly at the space between neck and shoulder, driving him absolutely insane. A hard body pressed against him, as solid as stone, but somehow soft as well. A hand reached around to his face, and a finger tilted his chin upward. Then he was met with even hotter flame, as his lover kissed, leaving him breathless._

_"Maker," he exhaled when Ataashi withdrew, and grinned mischievously._

_"Dragons aren't the only ones with fire," he said, then whirled him around and pushed him back onto the bed. He felt as if he floated for a moment, as if weightless, airless, as his lover crawled toward him on the bed, then his large frame hovered over him. He pinned him by his wrists, above his head, and tortured him with his mouth, hot wet tongue sliding down his neck, then down his chest, while one hand undid the laces of his trousers, then palmed his erection. His head jerked upward at the pleasurable feeling._

_The flames were suddenly surrounding them, lighting the entire room ablaze, blackening the vaulted ceiling with soot. "Maker, Taash, you're going to burn this whole place to the ground," he said. His lover chuckled._

_"Yeah, that's the idea," he rumbled, then went down on him, licking first, then sucking his aching cock mercilessly. He writhed beneath him, moaning and sighing in response. It had been so long, ages since anyone had touched him like this. He jerked his hips upward, thrusting into his mouth, longing for more, but mere seconds from his release, Ataashi lifted his large horned head, ceasing all pleasure together. "That's it," he said, leaning closer, until he was right at his ear. "Good little Templar," he hissed._

_But that wasn't his voice._

_It was someone else's._

_Cullen's eyes blew wide open at that sound._

_Uldred's voice laughed in his ear and he struggled, heart racing in his chest._

_"Let me go!" he exclaimed, trying to break free, but he couldn't. He heard the clasp of metal and looked over to see his arms bound in shackles. When he looked up, it was not Ataashi Adaar he saw standing over him, but Senior Enchanter Uldred._

_He blinked, and around him everything changed. He scrambled to his feet as the illusion of the tower at Skyhold dissipated, and became Ferelden's Circle once more._

_Kinloch. He was still there. It had all been an elaborate ruse. Kirkwall, the Inquisition, Haven, Skyhold. It wasn't real. He looked down to see the heavy plates of Templar armor, in place of the Inquisition's. The last ten years had all been an illusion. He'd never left the tower. He'd been trapped there all this time, the demon making him see all those things. He screamed at the abomination before him. "Nooo!!" he sobbed, and the creature laughed. "Let me go!" he cried, then threw himself against the magical barrier in place._

_"Oh, did you think the Hero Of Ferelden had saved you?" the demon asked. "Whisked you away from the Tower so you could start a happy new life? Did you think all of it was real? Oh, you poor, poor, miserable thing. It was all a dream, Cullen."_

_He pounded his fists on the barrier, but it wouldn't break, only flash brighter wherever he touched it, but it was solid. Unbreakable._

_"You will not break me!" he swore._

_"I already have."_

_"No!" he argued, weakly, sinking to his knees. "No," he sobbed again, quietly. "It was real. It has to be. I was there! I was..."_

_"It was all a dream, Cullen...All a dream."_

* * *

With a strangled cry he woke up, choking and gasping for air as if he'd been drowned, heart hammering in his chest. He blinked his eyes into focus to see the room above his office at Skyhold, and flopped back against the mattress. A nightmare. It had all been a nightmare. Trembling from head to toe he pried himself from the bed and scrambled to the hole in the wall that moonlight poured through, to feel the cold air against his fiery skin. He then sighed and slumped against the stone, running a hand through his sweat soaked hair.

The part involving the Inquisitor had all been a dream as well.

A bit of a disappointment, but a relief that the whole of it was over.

Wide awake once more, he shuffled toward the ladder and climbed down, then milled about his office, too terrified he'd be sucked into another nightmare if he tried to go back to sleep. There were a few reports he'd thought to put off until morning, but as he was awake, he decided to look at them now. He needed any sort of distraction to keep him from giving into the urge to visit the armory and pilfer Lyrium. It was stored there, under lock and key, a convenience for those suiting up to grab their Lyrium ration along with their gear.

The Lyrium would drown out the nightmares. When he took Lyrium, he felt nothing but its song. No care for anything but what his Maker-given purpose as a Templar had been. He felt strong, whole and complete, his mind impregnable, a powerful force of the Maker's will. But it was all an illusion. It was not faith. It was not the Maker's will. He had not been a holy warrior, but a mindless tool for the Chantry's means. He'd deluded himself into believing otherwise, and drowned himself in a pleasant falsehood.

Sober of Lyrium, he was now disillusioned with the Chantry's teachings, and his own beliefs.

Upon realising that the last twelve years had been no more than delusions of grandeur on his behalf, brought by the poison killing his body, he was unbearably world-weary of it. It would be so easy to slip back into that fantasy, but he managed to stave off the urge that night. It was the Inquisitor that stopped him, actually. Without even his knowledge of it. Because when he thought of the man he used to be, and the man he would become if he took Lyrium, he grew disgusted with himself, and resigned to suffering instead.

If he were to take that poison again, the Inquisitor would become nothing more than a godless _thing_  in his eyes, rather than the handsome, charming, and incredible _individual_ Cullen was falling for.

At that thought, he resisted Lyrium that night.

But the Inquisitor, on the other hand, was another matter.

Because his feelings for him were no illusion.

They were real.

And Maker, he didn't deserve the Inquisitor. Not after everything he'd done.

* * *

The following morning was fairly routine. For the umpteenth time, Cullen had dozed off at his desk and was jerked awake by a messenger nudging his shoulder. Jim, he was certain was the young man's name. He kept forgetting to ask, and honestly thought he should know it well by now. Regardless, it was he to come to Cullen's office first thing that morning, and shake Cullen awake. "Commander?" he addressed, and Cullen mumbled in reply, nudging his hand away, then rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Another late night, sir?"

He nodded. "Afraid so," he sighed, then accepted the tin cup of luke warm coffee and the report Jim handed him. He blinked rapidly and squinted while reading, his vision still a little blurry. The supply shipment from the Coast was delayed due to bandit activity, and wouldn't arrive til the following morning. But aside from that, everything was fairly neutral, at the moment. No state of emergency, but no word yet still from the Champion either. Harding was set to embark for the Western Approach to learn of his whereabouts.

Mornings were the most fulfilling for the Commander of the Inquisition. It meant leaving the confines of his office and personally waking the new recruits to start their training exercises. He trained with them, then paired them up to spar and oversaw their progress. There was always an audience near the training yard of the earliest risers. Most often it was the Iron Bull and his Chargers, occasionally others, but currently just the Bull, leaning against the stonework, chewing a piece of bread, large tin cup in hand, watching them train.

"Morning," Cullen greeted as he broke from the sparring yard and neared the horned giant. Bull tilted his cup in salute.

"Morning," he grumbled, voice likely rough from so much shouting and laughing in the tavern the night before. Cullen settled next to him, folding his arms, watching the recruits, hearing the big brute sigh beside him. "So, Cullen, heard you went to see the Boss last night."

The hair raised on the back of his neck at the Qunari's observation.

"Did you now?" he asked, with a scowl, thinking Bull would follow that up with some sort of snide innuendo.

"Yeah," Bull grinned. "I also heard things didn't exactly pan out between you two."

If it were possible, Cullen's scowl deepened, as did the color in his cheeks. "There's _nothing_ going on between us."

Bull chuckled heartily. "Did I say there was?" he asked. "I only meant you and the Boss had some kind of argument. I didn't imply anything else. But _you_ did."

Cullen sucked in a breath, fully prepared to snap at Bull, but then realized that anything he said would only dig him in deeper, so he clamped his mouth shut and continued his brooding instead. Above him, Bull smirked, then took a sip from his cup. "Where did you hear about an argument?" Cullen asked after a time.

"From the Boss," Bull answered. "Well, he _implied_ there was an argument. Came to the Rest last night. Drank all my Maraas-lok. Got shit-faced. Told us all about it. Well, most of it. Not all of it was common tongue. Some of it was in another language."

"What...did he say...precisely?" Cullen dared to ask. Bull chuckled. "The parts that were in common?"

"Said you were pissed at him, and he's not really sure why."

"Anything else?"

"Nothing all that coherent, really," Bull admitted. "Like I said, he was drunk. Nothing that would tip anyone off, you know, make people think something happened between you two. In fact," He got up and stretched, letting out a groan, "The only parts worth hearing were the parts in _Qunlat_." Bull gave a look of astonishment, perhaps surprised that Adaar even knew the language. Provided he still didn't know it was the Inquisitor's native tongue. Either that or he was surprised by whatever the Tal-Vashoth actually said. Cullen couldn't tell.

He gazed up at him. "What did he say in Qunlat?"

Bull shook his head. "I don't think you want to know," he chuckled. "It was mostly cursing. Very angry, violent shit. The kind that would make a demon blush."

Cullen snorted at that. "Perhaps you're right, I don't want to know then."

"Nah, better to ask him yourself." At that moment, Bull pointed to the tavern door, right when a very hungover Inquisitor was stumbling through it. The recruits paused in their training at the sight of him, and Cullen paused with his coffee tin halfway to his mouth. Adaar squinted, and shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand, starting to walk across the yard, but he stopped when he spotted Cullen. They shared a look, and for a moment, Cullen thought he might approach him, try to talk to him.

But he didn't. Instead, he stormed off, headed toward the Keep, and Bull tisked.

"If I were you, I'd quit jerking him around," Bull muttered quietly.

"I'm not–"

"He _thinks_ you are," Bull interrupted. _Why would he think that?_ Cullen wondered. "No offense, Cullen, but you're bad at this. Really bad. Want my advice?" Cullen sighed. No, not really, but Bull was going to give it anyway. "Stay away from him. _Far_ away from him. Tal-Vashoth, Inquisitor, Herald of Whatever, doesn't matter. He's still a mage, Cullen. He sets shit on fire. And where there's fire? There's always someone getting _burned_."

Cullen swallowed, images of his dream flashing before his eyes.

_...'You're going to burn this whole place down.'_

_'Yeah, that's the idea.'..._

A chill crept up Cullen's spine.

The Iron Bull walked away after giving such advice, no longer interested in watching the recruits, and Cullen watched him wander back inside the Herald's Rest.

Apparently Bull detested mages more than Cullen ever did.

The Commander sighed.

Bull was right, but for some reason Cullen didn't want to heed his advice. For some reason, it only made him even more curious of Adaar.

Only more eager to touch the flames.

Ataashi Adaar was a blazing inferno–searing hot, like molten dwarven steel.

And true, that he was a dangerous man. But bizarrely enough, that no longer bothered Cullen.

Twas not the fire that irked Cullen, but the Dragon's cold shoulder that got under his skin.

He wiped the sweat beading on his brow and got back to work before he became too tempted to seek him out.

**Author's Note:**

> *hides behind Iron Bull*
> 
> Please don't kill me!
> 
> \---
> 
> You think he might be using reverse psychology on Cullen? Warning him to stay away? 
> 
> Dont ask me, I don't write the characters, they write themselves. I just post :/


End file.
